He didn't return to the manor that night.
Instead, he went to the Emberlight Hotel—an unmarked sanctuary in Duranth's noble quarter, rumored among elites. Privacy here was currency; identities confirmed with a glance.
This was his first time checking in.
A steward in ink-black robes approached with a bow. "Sir. Welcome to Emberlight. Your suite has been prepared as requested."
Charles raised a brow. "That was fast."
"Preparation is survival here," the steward replied. "So is silence."
As he walked across the polished obsidian floor toward his suite, he noticed a silent waterfall shimmering to his left, fed by aquifers enchanted with lunar essence. It was luxury as art—nothing excessive, just precise.
His suite?
A masterwork of indulgent restraint.
A volcanic hot spring steamed. A moss garden, glowing with dreamgrass and starlit lilies, sat beside it. The frost moth silk and phoenix down bed was spotless, as if never used.
He didn't fall onto the bed. Instead, he methodically donned the formal clothes of House Ziglar: a midnight-blue cloak with silver sigils, platinum thread at the cuffs, and an obsidian glass crest at his throat.
Underneath, spiritual runes glimmered. They shimmered through the fabric, pulsing with protective qi.
[SIGMA: Warning. You are re-entering the noble sphere of influence. Shall I initiate secondary identity shields?]
"No. Let them watch," Charles said, sliding on his gloves. "No shadows today."
Once dressed, he stepped out of the hotel suite and descended to the street, where his carriage awaited.
It wasn't just a ride—it was a statement.
Enchanted elderwood, inlaid with storm-thread and frost sigils, gleamed in the morning. Twin storm elk snorted—antlers crackling with lightning, ready to bolt.
Two dusksteel-armored guards stood by, flanked by masked, cloaked cultivators. Professionals—unquestioning, lethal.
This wasn't a service for escorts. This was a fortress on wheels.
Without a word, Charles stepped up into the carriage and settled inside.
Inside: red velvet seats, privacy wards, and a hidden cabinet of scrolls, tonics, and weapons. A mobile war room for any noble.
He lowered himself into one of the velvet seats, placed his hands in his lap, and stared out the carriage window, his expression thoughtful.
The golden-tipped spires of Duranth outside shone like swords raised to the sky.
He said, "I'll be back."
[SIGMA: As a guest or a kingmaker?]
Charles smirked.
"As a storm, they'll have to plan around."
The wheels turned. The city began to fade behind him.
And in its place rose something far more dangerous than a masked merchant.
A Ziglar—with vision, power, and no more patience for playing small.
Whispers in the Dark
The Duranth City Jail was not made for nobles.
Within the inner ring—far from the stink of the truly wretched—one prisoner still paced, radiating a fury that crackled just beneath the skin.
Malfor Hayde.
Son of Count Hayde of the Southern Duchy. Wind-style qi user. Academy-trained duelist. And now? A glorified cautionary tale in silk bindings.
He was arrested like a street rat. Publicly humiliated. Defeated by a masked nobody before half of Duranth. Worst of all, he couldn't defend his honor, not that the magistrate cared with Victor Sorelle looming.
Assault. Sexual harassment. Disturbing public order. Resistance to apprehension.
His bail? A pitiful 3,000 gold.
His fine? 2,500 more.
And his dignity? Priceless. But thoroughly incinerated.
Malfor spat onto the floor, teeth clenched.
The crack of his own bones still echoed in his ears. His forearm had been realigned by a court healer that morning; now it was wrapped in a delicate, silver-imbued splint. Yet, it wasn't pain that gnawed at him. Something deeper pressed.
It was humiliating.
He growled and slammed a fist against the mana-barred wall—sending a jolt of pain up his already bruised knuckles.
A voice answered from behind the curtain of enchanted moss beyond the gate.
"You're leaving," the voice said flatly.
Malfor turned. "Braylen."
The man stepped into view—lean, angular, in blackened hunter's leathers. A former scout turned private contractor: keen eyes, quick hands, loyal only to gold.
"Did you get the name?" Malfor demanded, brushing off his sleeve as the mana gate opened.
Braylen shrugged. "No full name, but I've got threads. They lead places."
"I'm listening."
"The one who flattened you?" Braylen sneered. "He calls himself Lord Charles. Masked. Polished. Sharp tongue. Made waves at the auction last night."
Malfor stiffened.
"Bought two rare items. Used a Stellar Bank VIP token, but no Northern registry name, no land, no crest—just Charles."
"That can't be," Malfor snapped. "You don't get a VIP card without legacy or power. That token's no fake."
Braylen nodded. "Exactly. His qi is registered in the Arcana Empire's Central Registry. That means someone—somewhere—knows exactly who he is. He's not some backwater upstart. Not at all."
Malfor's lips curled into a sneer. "Then get me that name."
Braylen hesitated. "To do that... I'd need a soul-code thief. One who can breach the registry."
"Then hire one."
Braylen raised an eyebrow. "That costs—"
"Seven thousand gold to walk out like swine. War's begun—finish the map."
Braylen whistled. "Alright. If you go down, it's not on me."
Malfor's eyes glinted. "My father will know soon enough. He'll have a name—and I'll erase it."
Braylen's smirk faltered. "What about House Sorelle?"
That gave even Malfor pause.
Victor Sorelle. The name made generals hesitant, merchants deferential. Not just noble—old money, quiet power. Rumors obeyed faster than swords.
Malfor's father once told him, "If you ever cross House Sorelle, make sure it's at your funeral. Saves the undertaker time."
Malfor inhaled sharply. "We don't touch the Sorelles. Not now. Not directly."
"Then what's the plan?"
Malfor's smile came sharp and hungry—no charm, just appetite.
"We track the mask," Malfor hissed. "If he slips, his shadow gets the blade."
Braylen folded his arms. "And if he doesn't slip?"
"Then we dig. Find his crack. Wedge it open. Watch him break."
There was a flicker of movement behind them. A servant—young, barely past his Rite of Binding—stepped too close to the corridor.
Malfor turned on him like a whipcrack. "You."
The boy froze.
"Do you speak of what you see here?"
"N-no, my lord."
"Do you think of it?"
"No, my lord!"
Malfor drew a silver coin from his pocket, flicked it toward the boy, and kept his gaze steady.
"Good. Because the last one who thought out loud... forgot how to breathe."
The boy caught the coin with trembling hands and vanished into the shadows.
Braylen gave him a sidelong look. "You are always this dramatic?"
Malfor's grin widened. "No. I'm usually worse."
Outside, the wind had picked up. The banners of Duranth flapped like tongues made of silk and defiance.
Malfor stepped into the light.
A noble in fox fur and shadow, bones throbbing, pride bleeding.
But oh, how he would bleed others in turn.
Charles drank tea under a golden arch somewhere in the city, his eyes on the future.
He didn't know it yet, but something was moving behind him. A rage made of shame and broken bones. A noble without a cause, but with money and poison.
The Ledger of Vengeance
As soon as the soul-code thief disappeared, the Hollow Mare's underlight went out. The last hint of her shadow faded into the velvet drapes, leaving only silence and the smell of magic that shouldn't be there.
Malfor Hayde leaned back against the soft booth cushions and smiled slightly. He swirled the last of the Whisperroot Wine in his glass and held it up to the flickering red crystal above him.
"To unmasking."
He took a sip, slow and venomous.
Braylen, who was still sitting across from him, checked the area with small movements and pulses of qi to make sure they weren't being followed.
Braylen, low: "You got what you paid for. Signature matches a qi imprint from the Arcana Registry."
Malfor tilted his head and enjoyed the moment.
"And the name?"
Braylen didn't say anything right away. He let the words fall heavily.
"Charlemagne Ziglar. The second son of Duke Alaric Ziglar. North Duchy."
Malfor's face froze, but only for a second.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't the smile of a man amused.
It was the smile of a man watching the noose tighten.
"A Ziglar," he murmured, almost reverently. "Of course he was."
He stood. His cloak rustled behind him like storm wind against sails. His broken arm remained in its brace, but he ignored the throb; that pain was now fuel. Sacred, even.
"The son of the Duke himself," Malfor whispered, more to himself than to Braylen. "That arrogant little bastard shattered my bones and fed me humiliation—with a smile—and not only is he noble, he's Ziglar."
Braylen tensed. "Malfor… this might be a line you don't want to cross."
Malfor's eyes glittered. "No. This line was drawn for me."
He strode to the edge of the booth, his cloak brushing the seat behind him, and glanced down toward the distant corridors of The Hollow Mare, where shadows slithered and whispers held more value than coins.
"We're not just picking a fight with a merchant playing noble. We're challenging the very steel spine of the North Duchy."
Braylen murmured, "Ziglar blood isn't just noble. It's war-forged. That House is a fortress."
"Which is why," Malfor said calmly, "we won't storm the gates."
He turned slowly, the crimson light catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the wildness buried behind a nobleman's composure.
"We infiltrate."
Braylen blinked. "You want to send spies?"
"To the North Duchy, yes. Quiet ones. Not saboteurs—observers. I want names. I want servants. I want bathhouse maids, disgruntled squires, disowned cousins, anyone with eyes and grievances. I want a whisper of every breath Charles Ziglar takes inside those walls."
Braylen frowned. "That's a long-distance operation. We'll need a front."
"Then we'll build one." Malfor sat again, pouring himself another glass of wine, hand steady despite the madness brewing behind his gaze. "Something boring. A trade guild. Alchemical research. A traveling drama troupe, if we have to. Just enough to justify housing new people."
Braylen hesitated. "What's the objective?"
Malfor looked at him like the answer was obvious.
"To find his weakness."
He tapped his temple slowly and on purpose. "Every noble has one. A half-brother. A lover who is not allowed in the family. A tutor who has lost their job. A sword that should have killed them in a duel ten years ago, but didn't. It doesn't matter to me if it's a guilty pleasure for moon blossom liquor or a secret place to meditate in the woods. We find it."
Braylen's voice dropped. "And when we do?"
Malfor grinned, slow and sharp.
"We make it bleed."